Raoul.
“Faith, sir,” said Raoul, smiling, although his pallor
betrayed the excitement consequent on a first affair, “you
are in a great hurry to pay your debts and have not been
long under any obligation to me. Without your aid,”
continued he, repeating the count’s words “I should have
been a dead man — thrice dead.”
“My antagonist took flight,” replied De Guiche “and left me
at liberty to come to your assistance. But are you seriously
wounded? I see you are covered with blood!”
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“I believe,” said Raoul, “that I have got something like a
scratch on the arm. If you will help me to drag myself from
under my horse I hope nothing need prevent us continuing our
journey.”
Monsieur d’Arminges and Olivain had already dismounted and
were attempting to raise the struggling horse. At last Raoul
succeeded in drawing his foot from the stirrup and his leg
from under the animal, and in a second he was on his feet
again.
“Nothing broken?” asked De Guiche.
“Faith, no, thank Heaven!” replied Raoul; “but what has
become of the poor wretches whom these scoundrels were
murdering?”
“I fear we arrived too late. They have killed them, I think,
and taken flight, carrying off their booty. My servants are
examining the bodies.”
“Let us go and see whether they are quite dead, or if they
can still be helped,” suggested Raoul. “Olivain, we have
come into possession of two horses, but I have lost my own.
Take for yourself the better of the two and give me yours.”
They approached the spot where the unfortunate victims lay.
31
The Monk.
Two men lay prone upon the ground, one bathed in blood and
motionless, with his face toward the earth; this one was
dead. The other leaned against a tree, supported there by
the two valets, and was praying fervently, with clasped
hands and eyes raised to Heaven. He had received a ball in
his thigh, which had broken the bone. The young men first
approached the dead man.
“He is a priest,” said Bragelonne, “he has worn the tonsure.
Oh, the scoundrels! to lift their hands against a minister
of God.”
“Come here, sir,” said Urban, an old soldier who had served
under the cardinal duke in all his campaigns; “come here,
there is nothing to be done with him, whilst we may perhaps
be able to save the other.”
The wounded man smiled sadly. “Save me! Oh, no!” said he,
“but help me to die, if you can.”
“Are you a priest?” asked Raoul.
“No sir.”
“I ask, as your unfortunate companion appeared to me to
belong to the church.”
“He is the curate of Bethune, sir, and was carrying the holy
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vessels belonging to his church, and the treasure of the
chapter, to a safe place, the prince having abandoned our
town yesterday; and as it was known that bands of the enemy
were prowling about the country, no one dared to accompany
the good man, so I offered to do so.
“And, sir,” continued the wounded man, “I suffer much and
would like, if possible, to be carried to some house.”
“Where you can be relieved?” asked De Guiche.
“No, where I can confess.”
“But perhaps you are not so dangerously wounded as you
think,” said Raoul.
“Sir,” replied the wounded man, “believe me, there is no
time to lose; the ball has broken the thigh bone and entered
the intestines.”
“Are you a surgeon?” asked De Guiche.
“No, but I know a little about wounds, and mine, I know, is
mortal. Try, therefore, either to carry me to some place
where I may see a priest or take the trouble to send one to
me here. It is my soul that must be saved; as for my body,
it is lost.”
“To die whilst doing a good deed! It is impossible. God will
help you.”
“Gentlemen, in the name of Heaven!” said the wounded man,
collecting all his forces, as if to get up, “let us not lose
time in useless words. Either help me to gain the nearest
village or swear to me on your salvation that you will send